


remember this feeling

by superhoney



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Complete Lack of Olympics Knowledge, First Meetings, Hockey Player Dean Winchester, M/M, Olympic Village Shenanigans, Power Bottom Castiel, Riding, Russian Castiel, Tumblr: deancas-sweetheart, speed skater Castiel, thigh appreciation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 17:38:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13595052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superhoney/pseuds/superhoney
Summary: The Olympic Games bring together the best athletes from all over the world to compete for the opportunity to bring pride and glory to their countries. For American hockey player Dean Winchester, this second trip to the Games is another chance at the gold medal he’s dreamed of since he was a kid. He thinks he knows what to expect: fierce competition and grueling games.But he never expected Castiel Novak, the Russian speed skater with something to prove, to become an unlikely ally along the path to the podium.





	remember this feeling

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for this year's round of the _hey, sweetheart_ challenge and I'm so happy to be sharing it with you all! 
> 
> Please do not expect any sort of accuracy about Olympic proceedings. The thing about the condoms is true, though (thanks Wikipedia). 
> 
> And also thank you to my dear Diamond, for the beta-read and the assistance with the Russian and all other forms of encouragement and support.

The thing about the Olympic Village is that it’s _full_ of attractive people. People from all over the world, all of them in peak physical condition, all with the same looks of hope and determination on their faces. And it’s not like this is Dean’s first rodeo. He was part of the US men’s hockey team for the previous Games, four years ago when he was just a cocky twenty-three year old who threw himself into the expected hedonistic lifestyle of the Village with eager anticipation.

So now, twenty-seven and somewhat of a veteran, at least compared to some of his teammates, he meant to keep himself more focused. To stay on target and not be distracted by all the well-honed bodies moving around the athlete lodgings. The guys have been teasing him about it, wondering when he’s going to break (because, let’s face it, there have already been plenty of inviting glances thrown his way), but Dean is adamant. This time, it’s all about those gold medals, not how many people he can get into bed with.

Of course, all of that goes completely out the window the minute he sees Castiel Novak coming off the ice as the team gets ready to practice. Russian speed skater, world champion, and hands-down the most attractive person Dean has encountered in the entire Village so far. Between the piercing blue eyes, the perfectly-mussed dark hair, and the thighs that look like they could crush Dean’s skull, he’s pretty much the total package.

Dean has heard of him, in a vague sort of way. A few years older than Dean, he missed the last Olympics due to an injury, and this is expected to be his comeback year, though some people are worried the old injury will flare up and ruin his chances. Judging by the stiff set of his shoulders as he glides off the ice, he’s well-aware of the whispers about him.

Dean knows a thing or two about the pressure to perform. So while his teammates joke and shove each other around as they take to the ice, Dean hangs back and offers a tentative smile at Novak. 

Whose stoic expression doesn’t crack in the slightest. He gives Dean a cool look, his eyes lingering on the American flag proudly emblazoned over his heart, then nods briefly and continues past him. 

Well, then. So much for international cooperation and friendly competition. They’re not even competitors, not really. Different events entirely. Dean huffs and pulls his helmet over his head, then skates out to the centre of the rink to join the rest of the team. 

The grueling practice is enough to take his mind off Novak and his behaviour, at least for a little while. Their first game isn’t until the next day, and it should be an easy one. The US team _always_ makes it to the gold medal game, as their coach is fond of reminding them at every opportunity. He’s not about to let this year be an exception.

Which is why, after dinner and a Skype call with his younger brother, who isn’t able to come watch until later on in the competition, Dean heads for the gym to get in some extra conditioning time. Hopefully it will settle his nerves and ensure he gets a good night’s sleep.

“You wanna join me?” he asks Victor, his roommate for the duration of the Games. 

“Nah,” Victor replies lazily. “I’ve got other plans in mind.”

Dean snorts. “Might those plans happen to include a certain British figure skater?”

Victor’s grin is sharklike. “Jealous?”

“Not at all.” Dean claps him on the back and grabs a towel from their bathroom, slinging it over one shoulder. “You enjoy, buddy.”

“Oh, I will!” Victor calls out as Dean leaves the room. It’s not surprising, really. Vic only joined the team right after the last Olympics, so this is his first experience at the Athletes’ Village. Dean’s fairly certain he’s going to be regaled with the details of all of Victor’s conquests from now until the time they leave.

Unsurprisingly, the gym is pretty full, but Dean manages to find a quiet spot in the far corner to put himself through some basic exercises. He has his headphones in to drown out the conversations in a wide range of languages, and it’s not until he gets up to switch machines that he notices someone staring at him from across the room.

Of course, it’s Novak.

The small, petty part of Dean wants to ignore him entirely, but his mom raised him to be polite, so he gives a quick nod and a tight-lipped smile. Novak continues to stare, then as though he’s come to a sudden decision, crosses the room, heading directly for Dean, who slips his headphones off, wondering if he’s about to get an earful.

Novak extends his hand for Dean to shake. “Castiel Novak,” he says. “You smiled at me, earlier. By the ice.”

His accent is surprisingly light, and his voice is surprisingly deep. Dean swallows roughly and takes Castiel’s hand in his own, shaking it firmly. “Dean Winchester,” he says. “Men’s hockey. United States. But you probably already knew that.”

“Your country, yes,” Castiel replies, “but not your name. It is very nice to meet you, Dean.”

He’s still not smiling, but he’s certainly being an awful lot friendlier than he was at the rink. Before he can think better of it, Dean blurts out, “You didn’t seem to think so earlier.”

Castiel blinks at him, and Christ, that should be illegal, the sweep of his eyelashes over those blue eyes. “You were practicing,” he says, as though it should be obvious to Dean. “I did not wish to disturb you.”

“But during a workout is fine?”

Tilting his head to the side, Castiel asks, “Do you wish me to leave?”

“No,” Dean says hastily. “I just--”

Finally, one corner of Castiel’s mouth lifts in the barest beginning of a smile. “Can you talk and exercise at the same time?”

“I’m a hockey player,” Dean scoffs. “All we do is trash talk while we play. I think I can manage.”

“Yes, I have seen the evidence of this,” Castiel says, nodding slowly as Dean picks up a set of weights to finish off with some basic reps. “And the fighting.” He makes a tsk-ing noise and shakes his head. “So much violence.”

“What, you’ve never wanted to get in a fight with someone skating beside you?” Dean asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “There has to be some rivalry there sometimes.”

“Oh, yes,” Castiel agrees. “But then again, if I am doing my job well, no one is beside me. They are all behind me.”

He makes this statement in such a bland tone that Dean almost drops his weights, but then a warm hand closes over his and keeps them from falling to the ground. Castiel’s face is very near to his for a tantalizing second before he steps back, near enough that Dean could lean forward and--

“You are getting tired,” Castiel announces. “You should not overwork yourself. You have a game tomorrow, yes?”

“Yeah,” Dean answers, wondering if Castiel has the entire event schedule memorized or just Dean’s. Either way, it’s incredibly endearing. 

“I will cheer for you,” Castiel informs him gravely.

“Well, gee, thanks,” Dean responds, placing one hand over his heart. It’s meant to be a sarcastic gesture, but he’s oddly touched by Castiel’s support. “I guess I should get to bed, then.”

He lets his eyes linger on Castiel’s face as he speaks, hoping the invitation is clear without being too forward. For a second, he thinks he sees Castiel’s gaze drop to his lips, and then he’s back to holding Dean’s gaze with what he’s already learned is his usual intensity. “Goodnight, Dean,” he says. 

“Goodnight, Castiel,” Dean replies, lifting one hand in an awkward wave. Just as he’s about to turn away, Castiel’s voice stops him in his tracks.

“My friends call me Cas,” he offers. 

“Alrighty then,” Dean says, turning around to give him one last smile. “Night, Cas.”

And if that name just happens to slip past his lips when he’s stroking himself in the shower back in his room, well, there’s nobody around to witness it.

***

They win the game, of course. One down, plenty more to go. Dean stands in the centre of the ice, patting the backs of his teammates, the younger ones completely overwhelmed by the high of their first Olympic victory. Benny grabs Dean and hoists him off his feet, grinning broadly at him, and Dean tosses his head back and lets the excitement wash over him.

He’s still buzzing with adrenaline as he and Victor make their way back to their room, but he comes to a screeching halt as he takes in the sight of Cas leaning elegantly against the wall a few doors down from their room, arms crossed over his chest and expression distant.

Victor turns to Dean with a sly grin on his face. “Thought you were all about the game this year,” he says under his breath. “The hockey game, that is.”

“Shut up,” Dean shoots back. He takes a few more steps forward and Cas finally looks up, face still neutral but eyes alight. 

“Hello, Dean,” he says, offering a polite nod to Victor. “Congratulations on your victory.”

Victor returns the nod, then slides past Castiel to unlock the door to their room, shooting a mischievous look at Dean over his shoulder as he leaves them standing in the hallway. 

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean says, scratching at the back of his neck. “Look, I’m happy to see you, but--”

“I asked one of my American counterparts if they knew where you were rooming,” Castiel says, lowering his gaze. Almost shyly, which is unusual for him. “She directed me to this area of the complex, said all the hockey players were here.”

“No, no, I really am happy to see you,” Dean rushes to say. “I’m just kinda gross right now, you know?” He’s positive his hair is a wreck from being trapped under his helmet, he knows he’s disgustingly sweaty, and he probably doesn’t exactly smell great.

But Castiel doesn’t seem perturbed. “Perhaps, once you are refreshed, we might…” he trails off.

“You wanna hang out?” Dean finishes, grinning. “Yeah, man, that’d be great. Give me half an hour and meet me down in the lounge?”

Castiel nods firmly. “It’s a date.” He reaches out and lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean’s breath catches in his throat. “Congratulations again, Dean.”

Dean watches him go, slightly dazed. Did he mean a _date-date_? People use that expression to mean all sorts of things, he knows. He’s probably reading too much into it. For whatever reason, though, Cas wants to hang out with him, and that’s good enough for Dean. 

So he takes a shower and changes into one of his nicer pairs of jeans and a plain black t-shirt, then spends a few minutes styling his hair, glad that Victor has already gone back out somewhere and isn’t around to tease him. He spares a few minutes to reply to all the texts he missed during the game, mostly from his family and friends back home, then slides his keycard into his pocket and leaves the room.

The lounge is on the first floor, a dedicated space where athletes can mingle at leisure. It’s almost always busy, and today isn’t an exception. It takes a few minutes for Dean to locate Cas, who’s snagged one of the armchairs by the fireplace and is glowering hard enough to keep everyone out of the one beside him.

When he catches sight of Dean, though, his face shifts into something much more welcoming, and he pats the chair beside him with an expectant look. Dean drops into it and grins over at him. “Good job guarding the best seats in the house.”

“Only the best for you,” Castiel replies. His voice is emotionless, but Dean’s learning to read him pretty well despite only having known him for about a day, and he’s pretty sure Castiel is teasing him.

“Well, we may have won an Olympic match, but we’ve still got a long ways to go,” he says, stretching his arms over his head and rolling his neck from side to side, shamelessly putting his body on display. He works hard and trains hard. He knows he looks good. “When we win Gold, I expect something even more extravagant.”

One of Castiel’s dark eyebrows raises. “When?” he repeats. “You are very confident.”

Dean shrugs. “Well, yeah,” he says. “Okay, it’s partially bullshit macho posturing, but it’s not just that. I know the stats. The only team that has a real chance against us is Canada, as usual.”

“The Canadians are very good,” Castiel says with a nod. “In speed skating as well. Anything with ice.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “You’ve got a few of them in your races, don’t you?”

Castiel gives him a sidelong look that Dean can’t decipher. Okay, so he might have taken a few minutes to look up which events Castiel was competing in (the 1000m and 1500m races). And checked out the competition. 

Just to be friendly and supportive, of course.

“Yes,” Castiel says slowly. “Were you reading about me?”

“No,” Dean mutters, feeling himself flush. “I was reading about speed skating. Not the same thing.”

Castiel’s face clears, almost like he’s...relieved? Dean files that away to investigate later. “And what else did you learn?” he asks.

“You guys are seriously impressive,” Dean says with a laugh. “I mean, I’m a skater too, but the speeds you can hit, and how quickly you go from zero to sixty? I’d never make it.”

Cas gives him a considering look. “With training, you might.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Dean laughs. “But I’m happy where I am.”

“Have you been playing hockey for long?”

“Since I was a kid, yeah. My dad played, and I always wanted to follow in his footsteps, you know?” Dean smiles at the memory of his father teaching him to skate, back before his mom died and their relationship grew strained. “The team’s like a family. And our coach, Bobby, is an old friend of my dad’s, so I’ve known him pretty much my whole life.”

“That sounds very nice,” Castiel comments, though his eyes look sad. “My coach, Anna, is also an old family friend. But there is not so much of a team.”

“Maybe you should switch to hockey,” Dean suggests. “We can play each other.”

Castiel’s lips twitch and he shakes his head. “But then one of us would have to lose,” he points out. “And I do not think either of us enjoys losing.”

“That’s true,” Dean says. The lounge has slowly emptied out around him, and when he looks down at his phone he realizes they’ve been talking for almost two hours. He also knows from his research that Cas has the 1500m event the next day, so they should probably call it a night.

“Big day for you tomorrow,” he comments. “Time for bed?”

Castiel checks his phone and grimaces. “I suppose so.” He stands and stretches, the hem of his grey t-shirt riding up enough for Dean to catch a glimpse of one sharply cut hip. “Let me walk you back to your room.”

It’s not exactly a request, but Dean nods anyway. There are more people bustling about the halls, coming or going from training sessions or on their way to rooms of friends they’ve made already. Right before the stairwell, a group of raucous Dutch athletes are celebrating some sort of victory, tossing confetti in the air and singing along to their national anthem. The crowds thin as they climb the stairs to the third floor where Dean and his teammates are staying, and there’s no one in sight as they turn down the corridor that leads to his room.

“So, good luck tomorrow,” he says as they reach his door. He looks up at Castiel and notices a piece of confetti stuck in his hair. “Here, wait,” he says, instinctively reaching up to remove it.

“Thank you,” Castiel replies. He catches Dean’s hand in his own as he lowers it, and Dean forgets to breathe for a moment. Castiel is giving him this intense look from under his lashes, and Dean would like to blame the shaking in his knees on his earlier exertion from the game but he knows it would be a lie. “There is another way to wish a person luck, you know.”

Dean laughs, because how is this even his life, Castiel Novak giving him some sort of come-hither look, and then nods, and then Cas is pulling him forward and their lips meet, softly at first but with increasing hunger. Cas walks them back until Dean’s back hits the wall, but he can’t complain, not when Cas has one hand at his hip and the other braced on his chest as he continues to kiss him. Just as Dean is starting to think about sliding over slightly and pulling them into his room, Cas draws back.

“I would very much like to continue kissing you,” he states. “But I have an event tomorrow.”

Dean exhales shakily, trying to get brain back in working order. “Alright,” he says. “Well. That was a good-luck kiss, right? So if you get a medal, maybe you’ll get a congratulations kiss.”

Castiel nods decisively. “This is very good motivation,” he declares. “Will you watch the race?”

It’s scheduled to take place between practices, fortunately. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.”

A slight tinge of pink appears in Castiel’s cheeks, and Dean just has to lean forward and press a kiss to the left one, utterly charmed. “Goodnight,” he murmurs. “You’re going to do great tomorrow.”

Castiel says something under his breath, too low for Dean to understand, and gives him one last quick embrace before stepping back. “Sleep well, Dean.”

***

As it turns out, a ‘congratulations kiss’ is about ten times hotter and ten times filthier than a ‘good luck kiss.’ They’re inside Castiel’s room this time, and Cas has Dean pressed against the wall (this is becoming a pattern and Dean is one hundred percent okay with it) with their hands twined together above Dean’s head. It isn’t often that someone can make feel Dean small in comparison, and though Castiel might be an inch or two shorter, the solidly muscled thigh that slides between his own legs, coaxing them apart, definitely gives Castiel an advantage in another way. Dean is grateful for the support of the wall behind him, because he’d be likely to fall over without it.

Cas would catch him, though.

He won the gold medal, of course. So easily that Dean almost felt bad for the other skaters. The race was over so quickly, and then Castiel was being pulled onto the podium, a look of satisfaction (and maybe a hint of relief) on his face. Dean has to admit, the gold looks good on him. Really, really good.

The medal is still hanging around Cas’ neck, and when he pulls back slightly to trail his lips over the hinge of Dean’s jaw and back towards his ear and his neck, Dean whines and wraps his hand around the ribbon, using it to tug Cas’ face back up towards his own. Cas lets out a low laugh but goes willingly, capturing Dean’s mouth with his own again.

They’re pressed together from head to feet, which means there’s no hiding the fact that Dean is incredibly turned on right now. Shifting his hips just slightly brings his erection into contact with the steel muscles of Castiel’s thigh, and he moans at the feeling, trying not to rock forward against it.

Cas breaks the kiss and gives Dean a long, considering look. Dean swallows roughly but holds his gaze, unwilling to move forward until he gets a green light. But then Cas sighs and disentangles their hands and their bodies, and Dean bites back a curse. He should have controlled himself better. What is he, sixteen, getting so worked up over a bit of making out?

“You are very good at congratulating me,” Cas says, one hand coming up to cup Dean’s face. Dean leans into the touch and breathes out shakily. Cas doesn’t sound upset, or freaked out. “But I have a policy.”

“Let me guess, no sleeping with Americans?” Dean asks wryly. 

Cas makes a dismissive gesture and mutters something in Russian. “No,” he says. “No sleeping with anyone, during the Games.”

Dean can’t really fault him for that, especially considering that was his original plan for this year’s event anyway. “Is it like a superstitious thing?” he asks. “Some people think it’s the other way around, you know. Not that I’m trying to convince you, God no, I just--”

Cas cuts him off with a brief, firm kiss. “I know,” he says. “You are a good man, Dean. And no, I would not call it a superstition. Only me trying to focus on what matters most.”

“Which is winning?” Dean takes Cas’ hand and leads him to one of the beds, sitting down on the edge and pulling Cas down to sit beside him. He slips his arm over Cas’ shoulder and Cas nuzzles into his shoulder in a way that should be ridiculous for someone as thick and intimidating as him. Instead, it’s all kinds of endearing.

“It’s not about winning, not exactly.” Cas goes silent for a few moments, and Dean starts to wonder if maybe he crossed a line, if they should just go back to kissing if that’s all Cas wants from him, but then-- “It’s about showing myself, and the world, that I am not beaten.”

Dean nods slowly. “Because of the injury?”

“Injury,” Castiel repeats softly. “Such a small word. Yes. Because of that. They are all talking about me. You know about this, I’m sure. The press and the fans, the whole world is watching. We all have something to prove. But me--” he shrugs. “I have something to prove to myself.”

“Hey.” Dean reaches out and turns Castiel’s face towards his. “You are not beaten,” he says firmly. “Quite the opposite, in fact.” He touches the gold medal hanging around Cas’ neck with a gentle hand. “And the medals aren’t everything.”

“I know,” Castiel replies. “But they will look so nice when all the races and games have ended, and we can be alone, and they are the only things we are wearing, no?”

All the blood in Dean’s body immediately rushes south as his mouth falls open, staring at Castiel in a combination of shock and utter delight. Castiel gives him that smirk that’s become so dear to Dean over the past few days, the one that still isn’t quite a full smile but is close enough to count. 

“You’re a horrible tease,” Dean informs him.

“It is not teasing,” Castiel says, shaking his head. “It is only delaying.”

Dean can live with that. “You’re on,” he murmurs, leaning over to press a kiss to the top of Castiel’s head. “Now go take a shower. You stink.”

Castiel laughs, a bright, beautiful sound, and pushes at Dean’s chest, then stands up and stretches shamelessly, the look he gives Dean over his shoulder making it abundantly clear that he knows just how good it makes him look. “You have a practice soon?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s never been so tempted to skip out on it. “Another game tomorrow.”

“I will be watching,” Castiel tells him. He catches Dean around the waist and pulls him in for a surprisingly chaste kiss, brief and sweet. “Good luck, Dean.”

Still somewhat dazed from the incredibly vivid image Castiel painted for him, Dean leaves the room and stumbles down to his own floor. Victor looks up at him as he enters and rolls his eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Where have you been?” he demands. “We’ve got practice in like five minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean mutters, quickly changing and gathering up his gear. “I’m ready.”

Victor looks at him for a moment, his eyes narrowed, and then he grins. “You were with Novak, weren’t you?”

Dean neither confirms nor denies it, but Victor starts laughing anyway. “Oh, man,” he says, shaking his head. “You’ve got it bad.”

“Shut up,” Dean says. “Weren’t you the one who said we had practice? Let’s go.”

Victor doesn’t let up the teasing the whole way down to the rink, but with the memory of Castiel’s lips on his own and the warmth of his body pressed against him, Dean doesn’t let it bother him in the slightest.

***

The pattern is pretty well-established after that: in between practices and workout sessions, whenever their schedules align, Dean and Cas will find each other and sneak away for some privacy. They’d exchanged phone numbers early on to make coordinating times easier, and as the Games go on, their texts becomes more chatty. As it turns out, Castiel _loves_ emojis. Especially the medal ones.

If he keeps it up, Dean’s going to start getting a boner every time he sees one, like some sort of weird Pavlovian response. 

The American team advances to the semi-finals by knocking out the Russians, and Dean isn’t sure how he’ll be received after that, especially considering he scored the winning goal, but Castiel just shrugs and says, “They’re all assholes,” then pulls Dean in for his congratulations kiss. 

It doesn’t last long, sadly, because Dean has to go meet Sam, who is finally arriving today, just in time to catch the last and most important of his games. Dean pulls away with great reluctance, wishing the timing was better. Castiel has his second event the next day, and could probably use some company right now.

“Do you want me to try to stop by later?” he offers. 

Castiel shakes his head. “That is sweet,” he says, kissing Dean’s cheek. “But no. I should get a good night’s sleep. Go be with your family.”

There’s something almost wistful in his voice, something that makes a protective urge rise up in Dean’s chest. He kisses him again, long and lingering, and then heads down to wait for his brother to arrive. 

Sam would fit right in with this crowd, Dean thinks in amusement as he spots him at the desk waiting to have his identity confirmed. He’s glad of the extra security in the Village, he really is, but it’s hard to stay patient when he just wants to run over and greet his brother. Finally, Sam clears the line, and his face breaks into a broad smile as he catches sight of Dean waiting for him.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says, sweeping him into a hug. 

“Dean!” Sam exclaims. “That last goal, that was incredible, I yelled so loud I scared Bones half to death.”

Laughing, Dean ruffles his hair. “Your poor dog,” he says. “Good thing you’re here to watch the next game, then. You’ll be yelling right along with everyone else.” 

“I can’t wait,” Sam says fervently. He’s looking around with interest as Dean leads him through the lobby and into the lounge. “This is way nicer than the last one.”

“I know,” Dean laughs, throwing himself into a chair. “The facilities are really nice, too. Wish we could take you out on the rink.”

“I haven’t skated in years,” Sam reminds him. “No way I’d go out there in front of literally the best skaters in the entire world.”

“Do you ever miss it?” Dean asks. Sam played as a kid, mostly at their dad’s insistence, but dropped it after John died. 

“Sometimes,” Sam shrugs. “But I was never as good as you, anyway. And it’s not my big passion the way it is for you.”

“So you’ll just be my cheerleader instead.” Dean nods and reaches out to tug on Sam’s hair. “I bet we could get this into pigtails.”

Sam slaps his hands away, and they dissolve into a bickering match that draws a few curious glances from the others in the room, but Dean doesn’t care. His team is doing well, he’s got his brother here to support him from the sidelines, and Cas…

Cas is an unexpected bonus. 

Dean manages to call in a few favours so he and Sam can attend the 1000m race in person. He carefully doesn’t wear any American gear, and Sam being Sam, notices immediately.

“Where’s your team spirit?” he chides, patting the flag on his own hoodie. “Are you trying to go incognito or something?”

“No,” Dean mumbles. “Not exactly.”

He can see Cas on the opposite side of the rink, chatting with someone who must be his coach. He looks steady, but even from this distance, Dean can see the tension in his shoulders. 

Sam catches him looking, or at least the direction of his gaze. “Oh,” he says, his eyes lighting up. “Got a crush on a non-American, huh? Who is it? The Swede?” He nods towards the blond man limbering up beside Castiel. He’s attractive, absolutely, but he’s not the one Dean wants to wrap in an embrace and wish luck. 

“Whatever, Sam,” he says. Let him think it’s the Swede, for all Dean cares. He just wants to focus on the race right now. 

The skaters line up, and while there’s a tiny part of Dean that hopes for some romantic moment where Cas will look up and catch his eye, he knows Cas is completely in the moment. Also, the helmet and goggles make eye contact kind of difficult. Dean holds his breath as they take their stances, and then they’re off.

It’s so different from the structure of his own event. Rather than a series of game that stretches over the two-week duration of the Games, Cas will skate in several qualifying rounds here and walk away immediately knowing the outcome. It suits him, that immediacy. 

Cas wins his first race easily, and when Dean lets out a whoop of triumph, Sam looks over and gives him a sly glance. “Not the Swede, then,” he remarks. “The Russian? Novak? They’ve been talking about him a lot.”

“They don’t know anything about him,” Dean says dismissively.

“And you do?”

The funny thing is, Dean does. He knows the way Castiel’s voice goes lower when he’s been kissing Dean, or the way he reverts back to Russian when he’s frustrated. He knows the way his eyes light up when Dean offers some scathing commentary on some of their fellow athletes, or the way he laughs when Dean talks about his past adventures at earlier Games. 

Dean also knows Cas is going to win. He has to.

It’s sort of a relief that he was in the first quarter-final race. It lets Dean sit back and enjoy the other three without worrying about Cas’ success. He’s never paid much attention to speed skating before, but it’s breathtaking, the way they move. Each race is over in less than a minute and a half, and then it’s on to the next one.

Cas is in the second of the semi-final rounds, and Dean holds his breath for pretty much the entire time, or so it feels. At the last second, the Korean skater pulls ahead, but it’s okay, it’s still enough to qualify Cas for the finals. Dean exhales shakily and feels Sam’s hand close on his shoulder.

“He’s doing great,” Sam says, admiration evident in his voice. “Only one race left.”

“Yeah, one race to decide everything,” Dean replies tightly.

Sam keeps his hand on Dean’s shoulder, but he’s smirking. “You really like him, huh.”

There’s no point denying it, especially not to someone who knows him as well as Sam does. “Yeah,” Dean sighs. “I really do.”

The final four skaters line up: Cas, a Korean, a Canadian, and an American. The arena goes quiet as they take their starting positions, and then the explodes into cheers as they propel themselves into motion. 

Dean keeps his eyes on Cas the whole time, which means he almost misses the part where the American skater wipes out coming around the bend. There’s a split-second where it looks like his flailing hand might bring Cas down with him, but then Cas pulls ahead, leaving him (and potential catastrophe) behind. 

As the bells go off, indicating the final lap, the remaining three skaters are bunched so tightly together Dean wouldn’t be able to distinguish them if not for the different colours of their uniforms. The American is falling behind, but Cas and the Canadian are pace for pace as they take the final turn.

The finish line is right there, and Dean wants to look away but his eyes are locked onto the scene unfolding in front of him. They’re almost there, still perfectly matched, and then--

At the last possible second, Cas pulls ahead, some hidden reserve of strength fueling the desperate pump of his legs as he sails across the finish line to resounding cheers.

“He did it,” Dean says, finally closing his eyes. “He really did it.”

He opens them again to watch as Cas skates over to the sidelines and embraces his coach, kissing her on both cheeks and then draping himself in the Russian flag passed over to him. He skates slowly across the ice, shaking hands with his competitors, and then looks up towards the crowd and smiles.

It’s the first real, honest-to-goodness smile Dean has seen from him, and it’s so breathtakingly beautiful he might cry. 

He can’t wait to see it up close. The medal ceremony begins, and Dean watches with a smile, knowing exactly how exhilarating and yet completely unreal it feels to have that ribbon draped around your neck. Then everyone is clapping and cheering again as the medallists skate off the ice, and it’s done. 

“So,” Sam says, “I’m going to take off for a bit.”

“What?” Dean turns to look at him, blinking. “What are you talking about?”

“There’s curling coming up next,” Sam says breezily, “and I know how much you hate curling.”

“Weirdass sport,” Dean mutters.

“And also,” Sam continues, “you look you’re about ten seconds away from bolting into the dressing rooms after Novak, and I really don’t want to be around to witness that kind of undignified behaviour.”

“There’s no way they’d let me in,” Dean replies absently. Sam just raises an eyebrow at him, and Dean scowls at him. Okay, so he’s thought about it.

“Get out of here,” he says, shoving Sam’s shoulder. “Go watch your ice rocks.”

They leave the arena together and then part ways with a quick hug, Sam off to another facility while Dean heads back to the Athletes’ Village to wait for Cas. He’s lingering in the hall near his room, nodding cordially at the other athletes roaming around, checking his phone every few minutes and wondering why it seems to be taking so long.

Finally, he sees Cas step off the elevator. His face lights up when he catches sight of Dean standing there, and he crosses the last few feet between them with his trademark speed. 

“Hello, Dean,” he says. “Did you enjoy the race?”

“It was okay,” Dean replies, and is treated to an incredibly dramatic eye-roll. “I liked the way it ended, at least.”

He reaches out and runs his hand over the shiny gold medal on Cas’ chest. “This looks good on you.”

“I know,” Cas says. “It will look good on you as well.”

They’re both fighting back smiles, and finally Cas starts to laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling up, and Dean pulls him into a hard embrace. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispers into his ear.

Cas exhales deeply and leans his head on Dean’s shoulder. Dean runs a hand through his dark curls, not even caring that they’re damp and mussed with sweat. “You should take a shower,” he advises. 

“Mmn.” Castiel doesn’t seem inclined to move, now that Dean is basically holding him up.

“Let’s at least get you in the room before you fall asleep, drunk on victory or whatever this is.” Dean takes the keycard from Cas’ hand and unlocks his door, then half-pulls, half-carries him inside and onto the bed.

“Where’s your roommate?” he asks, noticing the conspicuous absence of belongings on the other side of the room for the first time. “I’ve never even seen him.”

“Don’t have one.” Castiel is lying back on the bed now, eyes closed. “He was disqualified. So I got a room of my own.”

As nice as that’s proven for all their physical encounters so far, one of the best things about the Olympics, in Dean’s opinion, is sharing the experience with others. He frowns as he takes in the quiet in the hall, the lack of knocks on the door. When his team does well, they all get rowdy together, but it’s never just them. Athletes from other events are always showing up to congratulate them, to join in their celebrations.

There’s a tightness in his throat as he looks at Cas, sprawled on his bed. His phone is on the nightstand beside him, and Dean doesn’t see it lighting up with any messages of support or praise either. 

In all the time they’ve spent together over the past two weeks, Cas has never mentioned his family, or any close friends. His coach, Anna, is an old family friend, Dean knows, but she isn’t here either. It’s just Dean. 

He remembers the look Cas gave him when Dean smiled at him as he was coming off the ice, the first time they met. At the time, Dean thought it was reserve, or coolness, but now--

Maybe it was just surprise.

He kicks off his shoes and curls up on the bed beside Cas, pulling him over so his head rests on Dean’s chest. Cas makes a contented noise and moves in closer, and Dean wraps one arm around his shoulders and runs his hand up and down his arm. Cas is quiet for so long that Dean thinks he’s fallen asleep, but then--

“I still want my congratulations kiss,” he murmurs. “Just….later.”

“Later,” Dean agrees. He reaches over to set an alarm on his phone, because they have their last practice in a few hours, and then lets his own eyes close.

***

He doesn’t get a chance to see Sam or Cas on the day of the final game. Of course, they’re playing Canada. Lather, rinse, repeat, every four years the same match-up. But he managed to leave his spare ticket on Cas’ nightstand the day before, and this morning Cas had texted him _I’ll be there_ , and that was good enough for Dean.

Bobby’s leading them through another one of his half-inspirational, half-confusing speeches, and the reality of the situation is slowly starting to sink in. They’re assured a medal no matter what, but Dean really, really wants to win. And judging by the eager hunger on the faces of his teammates, he’s not alone in that.

Some of the younger ones, though, look like they’re about to puke. Dean claps a hand on Max’s shoulder and squeezes it lightly. “Hey,” he says. “We’ve got this.”

Max doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he does take a deep breath and offer Dean a brief nod, which is better than melting down completely. He can see some of the older guys doing the same thing, encouraging the first-timers as best as possible, and he pulls his helmet over his head to cover the sappy smile beginning to spread across his face. 

They go through the usual warm-up procedures, skate around a bit while the announcers do their thing, and then it’s time. Dean takes his position, risks a quick glance up to the stands, but there are too many bodies for him to pick out Sam or Cas. 

And then the puck drops, and he forgets about everything but the game.

It’s brisk and brutal and completely thrilling. They’re performing at the highest level of their abilities, the entire team, and so are the Canadians. There’s nothing quite like it, the feeling Dean gets when he’s on the ice. 

They trade goals back and forth, going into the last quarter tied at 2-2. Bobby just looks at them in the locker room and shrugs. “I got nothin’ left to tell you,” he says. “Go out and there make me proud. Make us all proud.”

It’s the tensest stretch of any game Dean has ever played. Last time, they were trailing at this point, desperately trying to catch up. Now they’re trying to pull ahead, but it isn’t easy. There’s a moment where Dean thinks, for one glorious moment, that they’ve done it, but Benny’s shot goes wide, and he feels half the arena sigh in disappointment along with him. 

There are only two minutes left in the game. If they can force overtime…

A blur of red and white goes whizzing past him, and Dean swears under his breath as he launches into pursuit. It’s a mad scramble, and then the buzzer is sounding, and the Canadians are screaming themselves hoarse, and there are still 90 seconds left to play but Dean knows. It’s over.

They lost.

Once the game officially ends, he regroups with the rest of the team, all of them trading glum looks. “Come on, guys,” Benny sighs. “Let’s go play nice. The world is watching, remember?”

So they line up and shake hands with the Canadians, and as disappointing as the loss is, Dean means it when he tells them _good game_ or _congratulations_. They played hard, and they deserved the win. And they’re all so fucking earnest in their well-wishes, Dean can’t find it in himself to be mad at them. 

Silver is still a medal, he reminds himself. They did their best, and silver is nothing to be ashamed of. 

Of course, that’s the first thing Sam tells him when he finds him after the game. “Silver’s still really good, Dean,” he says eagerly. “And you were great.”

“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean replies, letting his brother hug him. “And hey, there’s always next time.”

“Exactly.” Sam nods and pats him on the back, then looks off to the side.

Following his gaze, Dean sees Cas standing there, hands clasped in front of him as he waits politely for Sam and Dean to finish their conversation. “Hey, Cas,” Dean says. “Did you enjoy the game?”

Cas shrugs. “It was very tense,” he says. “I almost had to ask Sam to hold my hand in that last quarter.”

Dean looks between Sam and Cas, wondering how the hell he’s ever going to survive if the two of them team up against him, and shakes his head. “You’re such a little shit,” he informs Castiel. 

With another shrug, Cas reaches out and touches the silver medal hanging around Dean’s neck. “Sam is right,” he declares. “Silver is still good.”

He lets his hand run over Dean’s chest in the briefest of caresses as he pulls it away, and Dean swallows roughly. He casts a pleading look at his brother, who rolls his eyes and pulls Dean into another quick hug before walking away, shaking his head.

“So,” Dean says. “Do I still get a congratulations kiss for a silver medal?”

Cas shakes his head, a burning light in his eyes. “No,” he says. “Something else.”

He extends a hand to Dean, who takes it without even thinking about the number of photographers and journalists swarming the lobby, all of whom could be capturing this very moment. Castiel doesn’t look bothered by it, so Dean just follows after him as they make their way back towards the Village.

They take the elevator to the eighth floor, so they’re clearly going to Cas’ room. There’s a feeling building in Dean’s chest that’s oddly similar to the one he gets right before a big game, the same anticipation and excitement tinged with just a hint of nerves. 

Cas opens the door to his room and gently prods Dean inside. Once the door closes behind them, the silence stretches into something tense, though not in a negative way. 

Finally, Cas says, “Do you remember what I told you, about how good the medals would look when we were wearing nothing else?”

As if Dean could ever forget. He nods, his throat suddenly too dry to speak. 

“Is that something you would like?” There’s studied nonchalance in Cas’ voice, in the way he doesn’t exactly meet Dean’s eyes, but there’s also a hint of doubt that Dean wants to wipe away completely. 

He takes a step closer, until he can feel the warmth radiating from Castiel’s body. “Yeah, Cas,” he breathes. “I would like that very much.”

“Good,” Cas replies. “Then may I remove these unnecessary pieces of clothing?” He lets his hand trail over the collar of Dean’s t-shirt, just brushing the edge of his collarbone, and Dean bites back a moan as he nods frantically. 

Dean is well-accustomed to being naked around others after years of professional sports and an admittedly varied sexual history, but something about the weight of the medal around his neck, the coolness of it against his chest, adds an extra intensity to the undressing process. Or maybe it’s just the way Castiel looks at him, as though he’s something to be not only admired but cherished. 

Not until Dean is fully naked does Cas lean forward and kiss him, his big hands resting on Dean’s bare hips and tugging him closer. Dean goes willingly, though he pulls at the hem of Cas’ own shirt as he does, silently asking to get them on the same playing field. 

Cas breaks away with a little laugh and pulls his shirt over his head with a fluid grace that Dean envies, then backs them up towards the bed and spins them around so Dean lands on it on his back. Leaning back against the pillows, Dean watches as Cas pulls off his jeans, noting with both lust and amusement the way he has to struggle to peel them off those deliciously thick thighs. Cas meets his eyes and smirks at him, then whips off his tight black boxers.

Christ, he’s gorgeous. Dean lets his eyes travel over every inch of his tanned and toned body, the cut of his hips and the breadth of his chest. He sits up, intending to reach for him, but Cas gently pushes him back down as he picks his two gold medals off the nightstand and hangs them around his neck. “Better, no?” he asks.

Dean isn’t convinced that there’s anything that looks better than Castiel’s naked body, but he nods anyway. Cas swings himself onto the bed, straddling Dean’s hips, and leans down to kiss him again, their medals clanking together as he does. After a few moments, Cas breaks the kiss and gazes down at Dean, solemn, and runs a hand over his chest.

“You are golden enough,” he says, then traces the line of Dean’s cheek with a light fingertip. “Your hair, your skin, the way your eyes glow when the sun catches them. This--” he touches the silver medal resting on Dean’s chest. “This does not diminish you.”

Breathless, Dean just catches his face between his hands and kisses him again, pouring everything he can’t say into that action. Judging by the way Castiel responds in kind, he understands. 

It’s a blur of roving hands and mouths after that, the feeling of Cas’ body against his own sending Dean into a state of pleasure so intense it makes him dizzy. He can feel Cas’ hardness against his hip and he shifts slightly, trying to bring them into better alignment, but Cas places a hand on his chest to keep him still.

“Let me,” he says. Dean isn’t sure exactly what he means by that, but he nods and stops moving, eyebrows drawing together in confusion as Cas moves away from him slightly and then reaches into his nightstand.

Oh.

“As I’m sure you are aware, they take our safety very seriously at the Games,” Cas says conversationally, like they aren’t both naked except for the medals. He holds up a strip of condoms and a small bottle of lube. “I believe it was 16 free condoms per athlete?”

“Yeah,” Dean croaks. “I mean, that’s what I got.”

“Shame,” Castiel muses, “that we only have a few days remaining to see how many we can go through.”

Dean drops his head back against the pillow and groans as the images flash through his mind: Cas on his knees with his mouth on Dean’s cock, or the other way around, or Dean with his back on the bed and his legs held in the air as Cas thrusts into him from a standing position. 

Cas looks down at him with that goddamn smirk on his face. “Of course, I take the blame for that,” he continues. “So allow me to make it up to you.”

He squeezes some of the lube out onto his hand, and Dean is definitely on board with this sequence of events, nodding frantically as he spreads his legs a bit wider. But instead of reaching between them, Cas lifts himself up and his hand disappears behind his own back, his eyes fluttering closed as he works himself open. 

“Fuck,” Dean sighs. He rests his hands on Castiel’s waist to help him balance, though he doubts Cas has any real need of assistance. So he focuses on the way his pleasure etches itself onto his face, on the way his breathing hitches when he hits his most sensitive spot, the way a darkening blush spreads across his cheeks and down his chest. 

“Can I--” he asks, lowering one hand towards his own straining erection. 

“Yes,” Castiel replies, opening his eyes to look down towards Dean’s groin. “Touch yourself, Dean.”

It’s a much-needed relief to finally get some contact with his dick, and the way Cas’ eyes flick between Dean’s rapidly moving hand and his face only heighten the sensations coursing through Dean’s body. “Cas, I need--”

“I know,” Castiel says gently. “Soon.”

He grabs the condom packet from where it fell on the bed and tears it open, then raises one eyebrow at Dean. “Yeah,” Dean says, “please.” 

Cas gently bats Dean’s hand away and wraps his own around Dean’s cock, smoother and less callused than Dean’s own. He gives him a few firm strokes before rolling the condom down his length, and then lifts himself up and sinks down onto it. 

Dean exhales shakily as he feels Castiel’s body take him in, the tight heat of him overwhelming. He tries to buck his hips upwards, chasing the feeling, but Cas stops him with a stern look. “You must be tired from your game,” he says.

Opening his mouth to argue, Dean is cut off by Cas’ firm kiss. “You relax,” he says. “Let me do the work.”

There’s no way Dean is about to argue with that, not when that means he gets to get his hands all over Cas’ hips and thighs as they work, feeling the flex of those muscles under his palms. Cas rides him with abandon, head tossed back and the two gold medals around his neck clanking against each other in time with his movements. Dean isn’t going to last long, and he doesn’t want to tip over that edge without taking Cas with him. 

“Can I touch you?” he asks. 

Cas looks down at him, and there it is again, that big, gum-exposing smile. “Yes, Dean,” he says, then groans as he changes his angle slightly. “Please.”

Finally, Dean gets his hand on Castiel’s dick, and gives it a few experimental strokes, watching Castiel’s face to see which get a better reaction. They soon fall into a rhythm, both of them panting harshly as they climb higher and higher, and he’s so close, he’s almost there--

“Cas,” he chokes out, “I’m gonna--”

And then his orgasm tears through him, punching the air from his lungs as the pleasure sings through his body. Castiel is still working above him, and Dean still has his hand wrapped around Cas’ cock, so he increases the speed of his strokes and is soon rewarded by a harsh cry from Castiel’s lips as he spills over Dean’s hand. 

He lets out a deep sigh, then looks down at Dean with a look of pure satisfaction on his face. He slips off Dean but remains poised above him, and Dean just has to surge upward and capture his lips. They kiss lazily for a few minutes while they come down from their high, and then Cas rolls off him and nods towards the bathroom.

“We should clean up,” he says. 

Dean doesn’t particularly want to get up (he swears this bed is ten times more comfortable than his own), but Castiel is waiting for him, so he sighs and gets to his feet and follows him into the bathroom. 

They stand together under the warm water, and somehow Cas ends up washing Dean’s hair while he leans back against him. He rubs his head against Cas’ shoulder and Cas laughs warmly, murmuring something in Russian into his ear before pressing a kiss to his cheek and rinsing out the shampoo. 

After they’re done, Cas gives him a pair of sweatpants to wear, and they curl back up in bed, Cas sitting up against the headboard with Dean between his legs, propped against his chest. Cas won’t stop touching him: running his hands through Dean’s hair, tracing circles on his abdomen.

“What did you say to me, earlier?” Dean asks after a few minutes. “In the shower.”

The hand in his hair stops its movements, and Dean feels Cas stiffen beneath him. “What?” he says, twisting around so he can meet Cas’ eyes. “Was it something bad? Calling me a stupid American or something?”

“No,” Cas replies immediately. He’s blushing, though, and Dean’s curiosity intensifies.

“Come on,” he coaxes. “Calling me lazy? Spoiled? Touchy-feely?”

“No,” Castiel repeats. He sighs and closes his eyes. “ _Dorogoi_. Directly, you might say ‘expensive.’”

“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “And indirectly?”

Cas looks down at him, those bright blue eyes wide and so close to Dean’s own. “You might use it to refer to a dear friend.”

“Right,” Dean says carefully. A dear friend. That’s nice. But he’s still not convinced. “And is that the only way you might use it? Just so I know, if I want to use it on anyone else.”

“No,” Cas admits after a long pause. “You might also translate it as...darling. Dear one.” He pauses again, eyes sweeping over Dean’s face. “Sweetheart.”

Dean bites his lip to hold back the triumphant shout building in his chest. Cas is watching his face carefully, waiting for his reaction, so Dean gently lays one hand on his cheek and smiles up at him. “Sweetheart,” he echoes softly. “Yeah. I like that. Say it again.”

Slowly, an answering smile appears on Cas’ face. He leans down and presses a gentle kiss to Dean’s forehead. “You are very persistent, _dorogoi_ ,” he murmurs. “It is a good thing you are also very charming.”

Dean flutters his eyelashes coyly, then laughs when Castiel rolls his eyes. He glances over at the clock on the nightstand and sighs. They don’t have much time left before the Closing Ceremonies, and he should go check in with Sam, but--

They haven’t talked about where they go from here. Obviously, they both go home. Thousands of miles apart. And then what? At least if they were in the same sport, there would be competitions they’d both attend, but with things the way they are, there’s no guarantee they’d see each other until the next Olympics, and that’s assuming they’re both still able to compete.

“You look worried,” Cas says, frowning at him. “What is it?”

Dean sighs. “Just thinking about the future,” he says. 

“Ah,” Castiel replies, “yes. You are worried we will not see each other for a long time.”

“Yep.”

Cas waves a dismissive hand in the air. “Dean, how do you think one becomes an Olympic athlete?”

“What does that have to do with the conversation?” Dean asks. 

“Just answer the question.”

“Okay, okay.” Dean blows out a noisy breath as he considers. “Talent, obviously. Good coaching. Persistence. And a whole lot of luck.”

“This is true,” Castiel concedes, “but it is more than that. It is also strength, conviction, determination. Patience. The same things that make distance seem inconsequential.”

He reaches down to hold Dean’s face between his hands. “If we want to, we can do this,” he says. “We are not losers, remember?”

“Tell that to the silver medal over there,” Dean mumbles.

Castiel rolls his eyes again and pulls Dean in for a kiss. “You will go home and you will train,” he says, “and I will do the same. And we will text and e-mail and visit when we can. And then, in four years, you will win a gold of your own.”

There’s absolute conviction in his voice. Dean looks at him, the fierce, unwavering belief of him, and wonders again how the hell this all happened. He may not have finished these Games with the thing he wanted the most, but maybe, to quote a classic, he’s going to get what he needs.

“Okay,” he says. “That’s what we’ll do.”


End file.
